


Some Kisses

by saturnina



Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Anthony DiNozzo, Burnout Syndrome, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Anthony DiNozzo, First Kiss, Gibbs' Rules, Jethro Gibbs Being an Asshole, M/M, McNozzo - Freeform, No TIVA, Not Canon Compliant, Rule 12 - Never Date a Co-Worker, Signs of Occupational Burnout, Tony Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturnina/pseuds/saturnina
Summary: Tony let his head fall heavily atop the scattered pages of the whatever form he was supposed to be filling, wondering how did his life degenerate into this red tape version ofGroundhog Day.
Relationships: Anthony DiNozzo/Timothy McGee
Comments: 4
Kudos: 79





	Some Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has no specific timeline, although personally I'd place it mid Season 7. I consider it an AU as it completely ignores Tony and Ziva's canon relationship. Also, Tony is established as bisexual. 
> 
> Anyway, comments are always received with love! Enjoy~

_"And it was only a kiss!" said Miss Harney softly._   
_"Some kisses," said Lyndall, "can explode the whole set plan of a life."_   
(A Dangerous Perfume - Anaïs Nin)

Another day, another dead Marine. For all the training they had, it was surprising how easily—and often—they got killed. Or so it seemed to Tony, now tired and stinky after spending the afternoon in and out of a dumpster looking for a supposed discarded bottle that contained DNA evidence to place Petty Officer Justin Compton—their latest victim—in the shody poll hall across the street the evening before. 

The place had no security camera so Gibbs told him to Find The Damn Bottle. Period. Tony had looked forward to sending his Probie into the Trash Sargasso Sea expedition in his stead, but no such luck. His boss took McGee along for whatever they were going to investigate next, while Ziva The Marvellous pulled a vanishing act at the mere sight of the dumpster. 

Tons of greasy paper bags, half-rotten food, formless gunks he hoped were _just_ chipotle sauce and a ruined lower back later, Tony managed to produce at least 53 beer bottles and have them sent to Abby's lab. He knew she would not be happy about it but he was feeling petty enough to justify spreading his own misery around. 

It was hard to keep the nonchalant smile and nod when Ziva pointedly screwed up her nose while passing by his desk, but Tony was nothing if not tenacious when maintaining his cool debonair. Everything was always alright with him, even when it wasn't. And it was imperative that everyone firmly believed everything was alright. Even when it wasn't. 

Tony loved his job. And he was damn good at it, he knew it. So it was not really the day spent _alone_ in a trash can, or the fact that none of his coworkers had bothered to to fill him in about the new developments in the case—which included Compton probably _not_ being at the poll hall the night of his demise after all—that had him grinding his teeth behind tight lipped smiles since he returned to the bullpen.

"You really need a shower," Ziva said from her desk, avoiding his eyes in an attempt to hide the fact that she was concerned for his well-being. 

"Why _Zee-va_ , you don't like the pheromone-charged scent of a man getting dirty in the name of justice?"

He could practically hear McGee rolling his eyes on the other side, while Ziva managed to look both amused and disgusted at the same time. She was right though—he had not cleaned himself since his arrival, some fifteen minutes ago. Had been too busy throwing an introspective pity party over the blatant underappreciation of all his hard work. 

He should go, clean the mess and finish the paperwork for the day. But as Tony got up, the malaise which had been edging into his mind since the middle of the afternoon caught up with him quite suddenly, and he found himself feeling terribly dislocated right where he stood. Which was absurd, as the bullpen was not only his stage, but also, often, his home. 

But not today. Today, the desks were too cramped, the constant coming and going of people too loud, and the artificial lights too blue and bright above his head. The angle where the walls met the floor had an unsettling tilt to it, as if closing in on him, and now he felt indeed on the stage, not as a star but as a clown, with his own very big foot perpetually stuck in his mouth.

Tony could not bear to stay another minute in that place.

"That's all folks," he announced with a dramatic sight, "I'm outta here". He pulled his backpack over his shoulder and turned on his heels to leave, torn between the hope that someone would stop him and the dread that he would have to explain himself if they did. He could feel Ziva and McGee stare laser holes into his back while he strutted out of the bullpen and into the elevator without looking back.

~*~

The phone rang for the fifth time. 

Tony kept his eyes glued to _Battleship Potemkin_ as if he hadn't watched it a dozen times before. There was something soothing about the silent film, and the only sounds in the room were the orchestral score of the movie and the annoying sound of his own cell phone ringing nonstop.

 _'Preciate the tardy effort Gibbs, but fuck you_ , he thought with a grimace, turning his phone off without even checking the caller ID, and feeling rather smug for his audacity.

He had beer, pizza and a pile of classical movies on DVD next to him. The whole setup was one naked hot chick or dude short of paradise, but close enough for Tony. And maybe not having company was actually a blessing in this case... Despite Tony's best attempts to distract himself, random images of his work life flashed back in his mind uninvited, reminding him of the ball of lead that had been sitting at the bottom of his stomach all day. 

Next movie on the pile was _Citizen Kane_. He needed another beer for that. Tony got up off the couch and hoped he wouldn't be too wasted by the time he reached _Casablanca_.

The knock on his front door was so subtle it took Tony a couple of minutes to realise it was actually a knock, not just the wood creaking. At first, he considered pretending that he was not home, but if someone had bothered to come over and check on him then it would feel rude to ignore it, and not audacious at all.

He was greeted by the sight of Tim McGee standing on his door mat with scrunched shoulders and hands tensely shoved inside his jacket's pockets. His green eyes looked around uncomfortably, as if he had been dropped out of the blue in front of Tony's door by a giant claw crane. 

"Oh well," Tony sighed abjectly, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. "Guess they were out of call girls tonight."

That was enough to make McGee regain his usual exasperation. "Tony..."

"Please, do come in dear McGuest, I don't need my neighbours nosing into my nightly entertainment." 

McGee looked about to choke on his own indignation (then again, what did he expect showing up at Tony's apartment at 10 pm?), so Tony pulled him in by the arm and closed the door behind them. Without letting go of Tim's elbow, Tony pulled him along to the couch and set him on the cushions as if he were a misbehaving child he was about to reprimand. Tim's eyes grew wider by the second.

"Beer?"

Tim just gave him a vacant nod, seemingly too busy trying to recollect his scrambled thoughts. Tony didn't mind it. The more confused he made Tim, the less likely they were to talk about what had happened in the office earlier. Tony grabbed two bottles and handed one to Tim as he sat down beside him. Tim's eyes darted suspiciously between the bottle in his hand and Tony.

"So," Tony started, carelessly draping his left arm over the back of the couch behind Tim, just for the wicked pleasure of watching him squirm. "My dates usually involve a lot more talking but if you'd rather cuddle in silence that's alright with me."

"It's _not_ a date and we're not _cuddling_ , Tony," Tim hissed. "I'm here just to ask you—"

"Do you prefer _Citizen Kane_ or _Casablanca_?"

Tim's eyes narrowed and Tony knew he was seeing right through his diversionary tactic, but to his credit he did take a look at the two DVDs cases Tony was practically shoving in his face. 

"Actually, I've never watched either."

Tony cast him an openly judgemental glare. "How do you even navigate through life in such a culturally deprived state?"

"Movies aren't the only way culture—"

"Quiet, you ignoramus. _Casablanca_ it will be then, and you've just forfeited your right to complain."

"Like I ever _had_ such a right," Tim deadpanned, drinking from his beer bottle for the first time.

Tony shrugged and crouched in front of the rattan pouf where his portable DVD player was to insert the disc. Then he sat back on the couch, grabbed his own beer and pressed play on the remote. As the opening credits rolled over the old Africa map, Tony felt himself slip into that numb comfort that watching the classics for the umpteenth time never failed to provide him. A buffer of predictability against all inner and outer tension he would rather not deal with, ever.

"Well," Tim's voice cut through his reverie. "I didn't expect to end the night watching Humphrey Bogart with you."

"And what did you expect to be watching, Probie? Tentacle porn? Lars von Trier?"

Tim huffed and took a swig from his own bottle without looking at Tony, who just smiled to himself before focusing on the screen again. Soon, Lou Marcelle's voice began to describe the torturous, roundabout trail of the refugees from the Second World War, and both fell into a companionable silence for the rest of the movie.

~*~

"Rule number three, DiNozzo."

That came followed by a sharp head slap. Tony sighed. He hadn't even smelt his coffee yet.

"Sorry boss, the phone's battery ran out last night and I misplaced the charger."

Gibbs gave him a pointed look from his desk, obviously seeing through his cock and bull excuse, but let it slide with a shrug. Tony released a breath he did not even know he had been holding. McGee arrived followed closely by Ziva, and soon they were all caught up in the big puzzle of Petty Officer Compton's death. 

Tony had actually woken up in good spirits. McGee had left his place sometime after midnight, and Tony went to bed shortly after, abandoning himself to a night of deep, dreamless sleep. He was glad McGee had paid him that visit, or else he would have spent the whole night getting drunk and brooding over uncomfortable things.

Like the fact he could not concentrate _at all_ on the case. He had a hard time even remembering the Petty Officer's first name. John? Julian?

"Justin," McGee whispered to him as they attempted to get information from one of the Seamen. 

Truth be told, McGee did his best to cover up for Tony's absolute lack of focus by doing most of the questioning while they canvassed the ship, and by promptly answering Gibbs when he asked for a sitrep. But nothing ever escaped their boss, of course, so by the end of the afternoon Tony found himself nailed to his desk with a veritable Tower of Pisa of paperwork threatening to fall and scatter all over his sanity. Whatever was left of it.

Meanwhile, McHero was paired up with Ziva and got to do all the awesome Very Special Agent stuff that Tony knew he was the one supposed to be doing. Except that he couldn't give a crap about any of it right now.

 _Maybe I'm having some sort of midlife crisis? Or... oh God! What if it's early-onset dementia?!_ Tony thought, as he read the same page for the third time. It might as well have been written in Russian, for all he was getting out of it. 

He checked his watch. The hands seemed to have been stuck at the same numbers for the past two hours. Tony let his head fall heavily atop the scattered pages of the whatever form he was supposed to be filling, wondering how did his life degenerate into this red tape version of _Groundhog Day_. He didn't know how long he sat there with his forehead pressed against the letterheaded paper, but when he summoned the energy to raise his skull once more, both Ziva and McGee were standing in front of his desk, eyeing him worriedly.

"Are you drooling over the paperwork, Tony?" Ziva asked in an attempt to banter, but the mildness in her voice betrayed her concern.

"Not at all Ziva," Tony answered, stretching his back. "The joys of bureaucracy just make me salivate."

Ziva looked at him as if he were a lunatic and then laughed. Tony laughed with her because otherwise he might go into Salieri mode and think it was God laughing at him, which was too damaging to his already dwindling self-esteem. He could, however, feel McGee's eyes on him from where he stood, and he could tell Tim was not laughing with them. Not at all.

~*~

Tony was in the mood for some _Amadeus_. And no, it was not because he happened to be identifying with the whole "patron saint of mediocrity" thing. Not at all.

No sooner than he sat down comfortably in front of the television, with a hot cocoa in hand instead of beer, came that same light knock on his front door Tony had heard the night before. He got up and was not surprised to see McGee standing there, looking slightly chagrined for showing up at his co-worker's place for the second night in a row.

"I hope you have nothing against classical music, McGoo," Tony announced as if he had been expecting Tim all along, and there was nothing out of the ordinary about their situation. "Tonight we'll be watching _Amadeus_. Just try not to identify too much with Salieri, m'okay? Although I imagine _that_ could be a challenge, considering that you have to work side by side with a guy like me everyday, but you shouldn't be too hard on yourself..."

Tony continued to build his barricade of blabber as he stepped aside to let Tim in. He ran off at the mouth with gusto as he told Tim to take his seat and offered him cocoa (which Tim accepted with a confused nod, since Tony left him no room to speak), hoping to preemptively keep the other from asking any questions or making any comments about their day at work.

It worked. By the time they settled down to watch Tom Hulce's Mozart giggle hysterically, Tim had only uttered a few monosyllabic responses to Tony's questions and comments and now it was too late to start any real conversation on off-limits topics. Such as whether Tony was having, perish the thought, _emotional issues_ related to his job. 

But during the entire movie, Tony could feel McGee's eyes probing him, as if still attempting to find the truth behind the layers of verbosity and the bravado Tony often hid behind. It made the older man uneasy but, at the same time, he could not bring himself to shun Tim for trying. What Tony couldn't understand was why McGee even _bothered_. He himself didn't bother to dive to the bottom of whatever was disturbing him, his modus operandi in cases of psychological distress being "fake it until it's not there". And it had always worked... so far.

Tony looked at McGee, noticing how his eyes widened slightly when their gazes locked, something warm and quiet passing through them. Tony could see that Tim was worried about him, and that's what kept the younger man coming to check on him. But he also realised that Tim respected him too much to trample on his pride by forcing him to talk about something Tony clearly felt uncomfortable about. That was very considerate of Tim, and Tony felt somehow undeserving of it.

"Thanks for coming, Tim."

Tim didn't even seem to register the lack of the usual teasing monikers. A shy smile spread on his lips and he nodded. Tony could swear there was a faint blush on McGee's face as he turned towards the screen, so instead of turning back to the movie himself, he sat there watching the dance of light and shadows cast by the small screen on the younger agent's skin. Tim had suddenly become a lot more interesting than F. Murray Abraham's performance and Tony found himself having to reign back the urge to get closer to him, to see if that perceived blush was real.

And so it became a ritual. Every evening after work, for the rest of the week, Tim would come over and they would watch one of the classics in Tony's DVD collection. Tim no longer attempted to get Tony to talk about what was going on, and Tony no longer pretended he did not like having the younger man around, his presence a living reminder that at some point he must have done something right at his job.

~*~

They were closing up the Petty Officer's murder case after Abby found Comptom's saliva in one of the gazillion bottles Tony sent to the lab, together with another Marine's DNA. After digging some more, they discovered the other Marine had been spotted attempting to sell drugs near the shody poll hall of the first day. It was all stuff he had smuggled during his time abroad. Apparently, Comptom saw something he wasn't supposed to, threatened to blow the whistle and got killed. The Commanding Officers of the ship weren't happy at all to learn that, and ensured that all officers would be investigated to make sure no one else was trying to make quick illegal cash on the side.

At least, that was the 'too-long, didn't-read' version Tony had stored in his brain as for what had happened in the case. Nothing else stuck, not even the fact that Abby was no longer angry at him for sending 53 dirty bottles to her lab, since it was helping to crack the case. Tony was tired and swore that if another Marine died in their jurisdiction the following week, he would raise him back from the dead and kill him again himself.

He was fucking tired of dead Marines. 

He was tired of Gibbs slapping the back of his head and generally patronising him even when he did a good job. I would be nice, once in a while, to get some sincere appreciation. Then again, Tony reasoned with self-soothing logic, it was not unusual for attractive people like himself to be mistakenly judged as less qualified, so he forgave Gibbs. 

He loved his job, and his co-workers, and the bullpen and everything. He just felt too exhausted to care and it was impacting on his ability to focus.

Following Gibbs' (sadistic, in Tony's opinion) instructions, both McGee and Ziva had left all their paperwork on Tony's desk as they took care of the last interrogations and arrests, but he noticed neither of them were smug about it. Ziva paced about the bullpen like a nervous automaton whose clockwork had been wound up way too tight, and McGee looked like he was about to crack under the weight of his own conscience. 

The Tower of Pisa had grown into Everest and the only thing Tony could think about was where he could find the nearest hole to crawl into. Only sheer determination and team spirit kept him drudging through page after page of case reports, budget statements, evidence logs, interrogation transcripts and whatnot. 

By the time the sun set, Tony had managed to make a considerable dent into the pile of paper, at the cost of his now shrivelled soul. His brain had exited the building hours ago and he was holding onto the last cracks of his professional dignity by the skin of his teeth. 

It took him about 5 minutes to notice Gibbs standing in front of this desk. His arms were crossed on his chest and his face was pulled into the stony frown of a man about to do something he didn't want to, but had no choice. 

"Hey boss," he greeted, his voice coming out like a sullen grumble instead of the chirpy tone he had been aiming for.

"Are you done?" 

"Yeah... almost. Still got a few expenses reports to check..."

"Well, leave your badge when you go, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, walking back to his own desk. "You're suspended for a week."

Tony's mouth fell agape as he urged his brain to return immediately to his skull so he could make sense of the situation. Is this how he was supposed to be _rewarded_ for all his work? With a suspension? Talk about adding salt to the festering wound. 

"Wha— _why_?!" he asked indignantly, rising so fast from his wheeled chair it nearly toppled over behind him. "I've been doing everything—"

"Have you? 'Cause I haven't seen your mind punch the clock at work any day for the last week." 

"You're being unfair," Tony groused, feeling a bit like a scolded kid.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "This is not about fairness, DiNozzo. Get yourself a doctor, a shrink, a priest, I don't care. Just find whatever is wrong and _fix it_." Gibbs' hard expression mellowed out. "I need my Senior Field Agent back."

~*~

Tim did not show up for the next two evenings after Tony's suspension. Part of him felt a bit betrayed by this, but another understood that this co-worker probably had better things to do during the weekend than to babysit his wayward Senior Agent. Ziva called him once to ask how he was, to which he gave an ornate response she did not buy. Abby called him at least three times to check on him and made him promise he'd call her in case he needed anything. Gibbs didn't call and, even if he had, Tony didn't think he could have a civilised conversation with his boss just yet. 

During his first free day, he had a very productive time lying on his twin bed, staring vacantly at the ceiling and mentally revisiting all possible what-ifs of his life. He only got up to use the bathroom and improvise something to eat, his appetite as lively as everything else about him these days. 

He stayed like that until the next morning, when his own lethargy began to dig at his pride, so he took a shower and decided to give his piano some long-due attention. It definitely needed some tuning... Tony decided he'd call his tuner on Monday, since he had been bestowed with lots of free time he did not know how to fill, except with movies and music. 

The second day passed mostly in silence. He went out for a walk, got some groceries and even survived a 10-minutes long phone call with his father without wanting to empty his clip into his own head. Evening found him sitting at the piano trying to recall how to play _Storybook Love_ , feeling more peaceful and collected than he remembered being in months. 

Perhaps Gibbs' dick move had some wisdom in it. Perhaps he needed a break. 

Just as he was getting the hang of playing again, Tony heard the light knock on his door he had come to associate with McGee's arrival. He had even caught himself straining his hearing during the last couple of days hoping to listen to it. The part of him that didn't want to answer out of spite was quickly overthrown by the majority of him, who had been missing his co-worker's company a lot more than he'd care to admit. 

"Hi Tony," Tim greeted him, sheepishly. "Uh... I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, there was still some paperwork left from the case and I wanted to finish it before Gibbs—"

Tony groaned, not really caring to hear about their boss or his sesquipedalian list of demands. "Come on in, McJittery, and leave Gibbs at the door please."

Tim followed him into the living room. "I brought dinner this time," he announced, displaying a bag of chinese takeout in one hand. "And beer."

Tony wanted to crack a joke, he really did. He wanted to say something clever, a glib one-liner, anything to make McGee blush in embarrassment, to reset the situation back to their usual roles of Senior Agent and Probie, where he felt comfortable and knew exactly what mask to wear. But he couldn't. Something about Tim's expectant eyes, his blatant joy just for being there to share another evening with Tony... the fact he had been there from the start, caring for him, even if he never got the explanations he wanted... the fact that he _was_ there, right now...

All Tony could do is smile. A honest smile, so different from his usual flamboyant grin, that it unsettled himself as much as McGee.

"Is this a bad time?" McGee asked.

"Nope... time's perfect. Come on," Tony called, walking towards the bookshelves where his DVDs were. "Let's choose a movie and prepare for our chinese feast!"

He let Tim pick the movie for a change and went to the kitchen to unpack the takeout and grab the eating utensils. As he opened the beer, he noticed McGee standing at the entrance of his kitchen, watching him.

"Do you need help?"

Tony snorted, throwing Tim a funny look. "Help to uncap a beer bottle? I may be useless at work but I'm not senile yet, McGee."

Tim rolled his eyes dramatically and Tony chuckled. He loved the way Tim reacted to whatever he said and did, always so expressively. Despite his insecurities,Tim didn't pretend anything about himself, seeming comfortable enough in his own skin to face life with authenticity. A far cry from Tony, who paraded around as if he were the king of the world, only to conceal—from himself as much as from others—the pit of fear and loneliness he had carved around himself, to stave off the complicated needs of his soul.

Needs, yeah.... Throwing a wistful glance at Tim, Tony realised how his younger partner had begun to fill a whole different place inside him over the years. A secret spotlight of warmth, of trust and—why not?—of attraction, that he seldom allowed anyone to occupy. And it made Tony wish he was brave enough to invite Tim closer and tell him what the constant comfort of his presence and acceptance did to Tony. What it meant to him.

As if reading his thoughts, Tim approached him gingerly, bringing the older man's reflections to a close. Tony turned towards his co-worker, knowing that he wasn't going to escape an explanation this time. He didn't even want to.

"You are not useless, Tony." 

Tony snickered. "Boss seems to think otherwise."

"To hell with what Gibbs thinks," Tim barked, as if personally resentful for what Gibbs had done. "He should have talked to you, to _us_. He should have let us help you, as a team, instead of isolating you more!"

"Tim," Tony spoke softly, to assuage him. "I get it that you are angry, I was too, but you really don't have to be. Not on my behalf. Honestly, I had it coming, I—"

"No, you don't get it," Tim cut him mid-platitudes, his voice charged with emotion. "I need you to be well, Tony. It's important to me that you..."

Tim's voice trailed off, as if he had spoken too much and was now regretting it. Tony was speechless, a rather uncommon occurrence to him, but one that usually pinpointed important moments in emotional exchanges. Tony tsked, feeling like he had been born under-equipped for moments like this.

"Look, Tim..." Tony started, toiling to find the words for what he had been so long trying to ignore. "You don't need to worry. I'm not a quitter, I'm just... I don't know, sometimes I feel taken for granted there. I've been so long at the NCIS it's as if I'm not even a person with a life anymore... I'm getting older and I haven't built anything outside of work, besides... yeah, I'm kinda tired of dead Marines..."

Tim shook his head. "You _really_ don't get it, do you?"

"I guess... I'm hopeless, Tim."

Tim stared deep into his eyes. "No, you're not."

Tony had a hunch. He cradled Tim's face between his hands, noticing how the other man's breath seemed to catch in his throat, his chest heaving slightly as his pupils dilated, leaving only a slim ring of green around them. Then slowly, very slowly, Tony brought his face closer to the other agent's, their eyes never straying from each other, to deliver a timid, feather-like kiss on the corner of Tim's parted lips. 

"I'm not sure I got it, but," he whispered close to Tim's skin. "Am I hot or cold?"

"Warm..." Tim answered, in a trembling puff of air. 

Tony pulled back a bit, to look at Tim's face. His cheeks were flushed and he had closed his eyes, holding himself utterly still, as if afraid that the smallest movement would cause reality to shatter, and reveal itself a dream. 

"Open your eyes, Tim."

The younger man complied and Tony found himself unexpectedly stirred by the sight of Tim McGee, blushing and panting unguardedly in front of him. It unknotted something inside Tony, a passion he no longer knew he possessed, a keen desire for life after such a long time dealing with a routine of death. He was overwhelmed by the need to exist out of the rules and limitations that his job and his own fear of being vulnerable had imprinted in him after so many years. 

This time he grabbed Tim by chin a little more forcefully, but before he could try a more suggestive touch, Tim held his wrist and stopped him. 

"Aren't we breaking rule 12?"

"I told you to leave Gibbs at the door," Tony quipped. "Besides, I've been suspended. I’m officially freed from all arbitrary office rules."

Tim smiled and began to explain that _he_ was not suspended, but Tony took this opportunity to press the other against the kitchen counter and steal, this time, a real kiss. A kiss to unhinge the sterile rules by which he had been living, coaxing Tim's lips to open under his, inviting his tongue to play, to give him back that taste for life he had been missing. Tim responded beautifully, clinging to Tony's chest and moaning against the relentless assault of his mouth.

Both were panting when they parted, hearts beating faster, but hardly fast enough for Tony's liking.

"I picked _The Princess Bride_ ," Tim said, in a breathless grin. "I read the book as a kid..."

Tony ran his thumb under the plump, reddened lower lip of his partner. "As you wish."

Another evening, another movie. For all the training he had had in avoiding the uncertain grounds of relationships, it surprised Tony how easy it was to follow Tim, greasy chinese box and beer in hand, back to the living room, into the unmapped territories of emotion that unfurled, most unexpectedly, before his weary eyes. 

Another evening, another movie. Dead Marines need not apply, for now.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Disclaimer:** None of the characters mentioned in this fanfic belong to me, and nothing said here about them is true. No copyright infringement is intended.


End file.
